(Continuing from my last post about the Destination Party, Me Gusta)
Feeling the warm sunshine kiss my skin while lazily strolling past a clear blue pool to a white sand beach is absolutely one of my favorite things (along with raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens). What I really love though is the smell of the ocean, the delicate breeze associated with it, a cushioned chaise in a partially shaded spot and a sweet little Mexican resort worker bringing me drinks.
Screw clouds and angel wings and robes.
This is what heaven looks like.
The 4 of us walked to the beach expecting all of the above. What we got was this…
The gentle ocean waves, perfumed by salt and aquatic life, indeed caressed the white sand. A gently breeze tousled our locks about our faces. Chaises were lined up just waiting for our tushes. And, those sweet resort workers were busting their asses to keep the patrons happy. But when we got to the end of the walkway, something additional, something unexpected was there. The few clouds in the skies parted, a single beam of sun shone from the heavens to highlight the structure to our left and somehow, a hallelujah chorus started to sing.
Molly’s voice was all breathless and lithe when she exclaimed, “It’s a bar… with swings!”
The four of us (remember Bret & Blondie’s room was ready upon arrival and they had gone there first) stood anchored in the sand for a few seconds, stunned, blinking, mouths agape and leaning forward slightly as if awaiting the thing to shoot up out of the ground like a rocket.
Technically, it was named ‘Bar Tortuga’.
We immediately dubbed it ‘Swing Bar’.
The thatched roof open hut: Intricate brilliance and sheer simplicity all at the same time.
The bar: Sturdy and solid. Cocky in its own capability to balance endless glasses and bottles at once.
The columnar wooden posts: Strong and enduring. Seemingly daring a hurricane to mess with it.
And the seats: Swings. Swings suspended from the cross beams with thick rope. Just beckoning a 6-pack of best friends to party on them.
Elated by the reality before us (of planting our asses on an uncomfortable solid plank of wood while drinking our faces off), we nearly skipped across the powder-like sand to cozy up to our new friends.
Who is that, you ask? Why Raúl and Migúel, our bartenders, that’s who.
We stepped onto the platform, took hold of the thick rope between our fingers and moved around to the front of the seat to saddle up to the bar. We all looked like Nicholson as The Joker because we were smiling so much. It was fabulous!
Who says alcohol affects me?
That first afternoon we did sit listening to the waves kiss the surf and willingly permitted the breeze to fondle the strands of our hair. But instead of lazing in those oh-so-inviting chaises, we ordered something from every bottle behind that damn bar while sitting on swings. More fizzy Polomas and icy cerveza of course, tangy Margaritas, sweet Mai Tais and some tart blue thing with a pineapple wedge. But these were childs games. Mere build up to the coup de grâce.
Half full or half empty. Hell, just refill it!
Yes, I like Piña Coladas.
For Bret & Blondie finally joined up with us. Their reaction to swing bar was exactly the same as the rest of ours. Their tactic and strategy, however was far more sophisticated.
Bret stepped up to the bar and took his place on a swing. I watched his eyes scan the offerings. With precision and decisiveness, he said to Raúl, “What’s your best tequila?” Ever the all-inclusive professional, Raúl replied, “I don’t know, my friend, you tell me”. And with cheetah-like reflexes that fantastic son-of-a-bitch placed 5 TALL shot glasses in front of Bret, followed by 5 bottles of Mexican tequila. As he filled each one, Raúl offered a little bit of explanation behind the different types. The rest of us followed suit.
Destination party? – It’s on!
Alcohol doesn't affect Charlie either.